


Summer Storm

by Moit



Series: The Domestication of Stiles and Derek [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Dirty Talk, Drama, First Time, Hand Jobs, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miscommunication, Sex Toys, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moit/pseuds/Moit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Domestication universe, this is Stiles and Derek's first time. Things do not go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First First Time

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be read prior to Domestication, but it was written somewhere between chapters 12 and 14, so I could recommend reading it then.

It's warm even as night falls, and every window in the loft is tilted open. A breeze drifts into the humid stillness bearing the scent of nectar and grass and canyon flowers, and it's so heady Derek can barely think, barely  _plan._  
  
He feels like he should be planning, preparing, readying himself somehow. But then again: what do omegas really need, during their heats, aside from a bed and a knot? Stiles will bring changes of clothes, he assumes, but the rest can be accomplished with their bodies alone.  
  
Truth be told he's still high on the rush that it was him Stiles approached to do go through his heat with, even though their latest attempt at sex was unsuccessful.   
  
Derek paces, alive with anxious energy. This time will be different: Stiles will be wet,  _soaking_ wet, and everything he does will feel  _just right._  
  
The wolf, of course, is pleased by all this; Derek can feel a pulsing vigor in his energy, and thoughts recur of Stiles' cheek pressed against the floor, knees wide open, back arched sharply, cock drooling onto the concrete. In his mind's eye he can already see the soft pink tongue working at his lower lip as he moans incoherently, fingers working without purpose against the ground...  
  
 _Don't get ahead of yourself._  
  
He has to adjust himself in his jeans before he can comfortably sit down on the couch again, one arm slung over the back, thighs parted generously. For his part he's procured the things he imagines they might need: food, mainly nuts, seeds, and fruits; music, in case something vague and rhythmic will help him ease into the swell of his heat; and lastly towels and washcloths for the in-between phase during which sweat and cum might need to be washed away.  
  
But for now he can really only wait, and it's the best kind of agony. By the time Stiles shows up, he imagines, the kid will be so ready to go they'll fuck on the threshold.  
  
Because this time, he resolves, will be  _better._  
  
* * *   
  
Not that he gives a fuck about Stiles' lame friends, but when the kid gets cleaned up to hang out with them, he's irresistible. Derek noses against his jaw as he lays him back in his bed, inhaling his aftershave.  
  
Whatever it is smells damn near as good as Stiles' own scent, the smell that's lingered in Derek's senses for over a year now. He slips his fingertips under the hem of his shirt and works it up, licking along the skin he reveals: belly, rib, nipple, collarbone. Stiles tastes like the smoke and sweat of the barbeque they spent the afternoon at.  
  
"That red-headed bitch wants you," he murmurs with a smirk into his ear, dropping his hand to palm his fly. He kneads him slowly, pulling back only to get a look at his face.

 

Stiles doesn't need werewolf senses to know he's being bated, but this time Derek seems playful, so Stiles relaxes bit by bit. He's practically trembling from head to toe in excitement because  _this is it_.  
  
"I don't want her," Stiles whispers back, tilting his chin up for another kiss. Derek's hand feels so good on his cock he's afraid he's going to cum before they even get naked. "I want you."   
  
If this wasn't Derek, and an Alpha to boot, he would probably be more in control, but as it is, he can hardly string two words together. He just wants Derek to lay him out and  _take_ , but hopefully, the werewolf will be doing just that in a few moments.   
  
"Come on," Stiles says, biting down on Derek's bottom lip and offering challenge, "Are you going to fuck me, or not?" His teeth pause on the "f" and his lips pop on the second syllable. He's praying that it sounds sexy, rather than lame.

 

Stiles could say anything -- literally,  _anything_  -- and it would sound erotic. Derek has beaten off to Stiles more than all his favorite starlets combined, in part because fantasies about Stile always seem so goddamn dirty, and this is why. When he releases his lower lip from the long hissed syllable it plumps again against the pointed dip of his cupid's bow, and Derek can't look away from the flash of his tongue underneath.  
  
He crushes his mouth in a bruising kiss, whipping his belt off and shucking his jeans without ever breaking it. He pulls up with a gasp to divest himself of his shirt, and takes Stiles' next. Last are the boy's jeans, which he lowers in coarse shoves, relishing the slow reveal of those perfect lean thighs.   
  
"Fuck," he breathes against his mouth, almost exasperated by how long this has been in the making. "Want you so  _fucking_  bad."  
  
Down to his boxers, hair mussed, Stiles is the picture of wanton sexuality, all long limbs and a cheeky little trail of hair fading up toward his navel. Derek lowers himself down his body, dusting kisses over his naked stomach, and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers. When he lowers them the other's cock bounces against his taut belly, and Derek can't imagine a single cock on planet earth more  _perfect_  than this one, flushed rosy-mauve at the head and glistening.   
  
He takes it in his mouth and sucks, gulping more and more down until his nose is buried in the plush nest of curls at the base, which smell so thoroughly of  _Stiles_ that Derek groans against his cock.

 

Derek's tongue is doing  _obscene_ things to Stiles' cock, and he's not sure how long he can last. His ball are already drawing up tight, muscles clenching and relaxing in an effort to hold himself back. Stiles hardly has time to yank at Derek's hair in warning before he's coming with a shout down the werewolf's throat. Definitely not what he expected for his first blowjob, but it's so much better.   
  
"Fuck, Derek! I'm sorry!" he says, even as Derek's hands gentle him through the aftershocks.   
  
He finishes, his body rag-doll limp and limbs akimbo across the bed. At this point, Derek could probably do anything he wanted and Stiles would just lay there and take it.   
  
"I'll be ready for Real Sex in a minute. Just need a minute."   
  
He swallows several times, trying to get some moisture in his parched throat. After that performance, he can only imagine how mind-blowing the main event will be. 

 

A minute is, incidentally, just what Derek needs.  
  
He divests himself of his boxers, which are now rather embarrassingly stained with dots of moisture at the front. Normally he isn't the type to weep precum like a teenager, but Stiles has a peculiar affect on his body. Even his knot has already begun to prematurely swell, thickening the base of his cock noticeably.  
  
While Stiles recovers he reaches over him for the tube of slick in the nightstand, and pops open the cap with his wrist, depositing a dollop into his palm.   
  
Omegas should produce their own, and it's better than the manmade stuff. But Stiles is new at this, he reminds himself, and every precaution should be taken, lest he be barred from future access.  
  
He warms the lube in his palms and then thoroughly coats a finger, returning to lean over Stiles' prone body as he eases it between his thighs. As he sucks at his lower lip he teases the boy's tightened balls with the tip of his finger, tracing the seam.   
  
"Good to go?" he grins against his mouth, and as he murmurs his hand wanders lower, and the tip of his finger comes to rest against Stiles' hole.

 

"Oh, my god, yes, Derek, just put it in!" Stiles cries, arching his back with desire. He can feel Derek's body heat and the weight of his cock swinging between his legs is all most too much for Stiles to bear. He wants it--wants everything--and he wants it  _now_. Waiting even a minute longer just seems like an eternity.   
  
He plants his feet firmly on the mattress and takes two handfuls of the sheets in either hand. He's never been so ready for this. His dick feels like a steel rod that could punch out a window or something. He never knew having an Alpha in bed with him would cause such an effect, but such is his life.   
  
"Come on, Derek, come on. I'm not a shrinking violet, and I'm not some girl-beta. Stick it in, already."   
  
He's tired of waiting, tired of asking, and if he has to, he'll flip himself over and  _take_ what he wants, what he needs, so badly. 

 

Only in goddamn  _O-Ring_ letters-to-the-editor smut sections are omegas this insatiable, this ready. Derek's vision almost blurs with the sudden heightening of his senses, and more than he's ever wanted to before he wants to fuck, pound him, knot him, breed him, fill him up again and again, and everything in Stiles' posture and voice just keeps beckoning to him.   
  
His cock is leaking profusely now and his knot is swelled so thick his cock is held in a fairly rigid position.   
  
"Easy," he pants, pressing that first finger in as deep as it will go, "just -- relax."   
  
The next joins it with a little more difficulty, but Stiles  _is_  a virgin, he reminds himself, no matter how impassioned and horny and fucking  _begging_ for his knot --  
  
Derek shakes it off, spreads his knuckles, twists his wrist, and feels sweat bead on his forehead with the restraint it takes to keep stretching him when all he can think of is how those smooth satiny walls will feel on the leaking head of his cock.  
  
"Ready?" he asks, and he's sure his voice cracks slightly, but he doesn't care.

 

Stiles feels like he's going to go out of his mind if Derek keeps asking him if he's ready, and he tells him as much.   
  
"Do you need me to draw you a map? Write out an invitation?" He sighs overly dramatically and throws his head back. "Please, Derek, just stick your cock in my ass and  _fuck me already_!"  
  
Grabbing his legs behind the knee, Stiles yanks his legs up, practically over his head, to give Derek a visual of  _just_ how ready and willing he is. If the Alpha takes any longer, Stiles might have to go find some  _other_ Alpha to deflower him, and he tells Derek that, too.   
  
"Is this good enough? Does this convey my message? You get the picture?"   
  
He hold on tight enough to potentially rip something, but right now he would much rather pull a muscle  _actually having sex_ than remain a completely-whole-un-injured virgin. 

 

If he's going to show him, then Derek is going to look; he spends a moment there, peering, and Stiles' hole is the most perfect thing he's ever seen, tight and shining with slick and twitching for him.   
  
And everything is compounded, of course, but the knowledge that he's the only Alpha ever to have been where he's going, which acts on his psyche like a heady jolt of pheromones.   
  
He moves between his spread thighs, straightening until the tip of his cock bumps against Stiles, and the boy's face is framed between his forearms.   
  
"You're mine," he breathes into his mouth, catching him in a kiss as he presses the flushed head into the tight pucker of his hole.  
  
Tight being the key operative: Derek is half puzzled, half elated by how much tighter Stiles' feels on the tip of his cock than he did on his fingers. He's able to push just down past the flare of the head, and as soon as Stiles' body conforms around him he groans, hips giving an involuntary buck.  
  
He breaks the kiss to praise him, breathing labored.  
  
"Fuck, Stiles, you're -- so, so tight."

 

It hurts at first, as Stiles knew it would, and not only does that dampen some of his excitement, it also takes away some of his arousal. His cock shrinks to about half-mast, and he takes it in his hand in an effort to encourage it back to full hardness. He's not a masochist by any stretch of the mind, but, as he reminds himself, his body is designed to handle this. He produces slick to allow an Alpha to knot him.   
  
At the thought of Derek's knot, Stiles' hole clenches even tighter around the head of Derek's cock as if to get him out or keep him out. If it hurts now, he can't even imagine what it must feel like to be knotted. Suddenly, the prospect doesn't sound so enticing.   
  
Stiles allows his legs to drop, feet falling flat on the bed once again. He takes a series of deep breaths as he stares up at the blank expanse of Derek's ceiling. He's trying to concentrate on anything but the pain, and nothing seems to be working. 

 

Stiles' body is so tight it almost renders him breathless; even the minutest push of his hips results in sensation so intensely pleasurable it's almost painful. Derek stills his breathing, focusing it, kissing the teen's open mouth now and again to remind him he's still with him, still there, here on earth.  
  
But it feels so much better than that, and so much more urgent. His knot tingles: all he can think of is burying it in him as soon as possible, stroking that smooth back as Stiles' hole milks cum out of him.  
  
And so he thrusts, gently, but still -- and there is no progress.  
  
Sweat now shines on his face, with a small rivulet forming just underneath one of his sideburns. His brows knit in concentration.   
  
"Relax, babe," he urges him, and again thrusts.  
  
But there's still not so much as a centimeter of depth gained. When he pushes again, the resistance  _is_ painful on the tip of his cock, though his arousal doesn't exactly flag.

 

Stiles tries, he really does, but finally it gets to be too much, and he pushes at Derek's chest as he tries to close his legs.   
  
"Get out, get out, stop!" he shouts as though he's trying to protect himself from a physical blow. "Just stop, Derek! It fucking hurts!"  
  
He knows he's overreacting, that it can't hurt  _that_ bad, but his whole asshole like it's on fire, and his dick has shriveled to the size it gets when he jumps into a swimming pool. He no longer has any interest in having sex--now that Derek's dick has been inside him, he's not a virgin anymore anyway--and he just wants to curl up somewhere and  _die of embarrassment_ in the hopes that he will escape this moment.   
  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he finds himself repeating over and over as the tears splash down his cheeks, but there's nothing he can do now. 

 

Pulling out itself is a bit of a trial; Derek grits his teeth as Stiles' body tugs at him, and removes himself anyway.  
  
Not that he would, under normal conditions, just obey like this. But he's weak against tears, especially Stiles; never did he even imagine an inkling of affection for the teen until he cried that night in his loft, in the presence of Scott and Jennifer.  
  
He knew then as he does now that he really does feel something tender for him, which is the reason he can remain still even as his dick is hard and sore and aching, just outside the other's body.  
  
"Calm down," he sighs, sweeping a handful of tears away from his cheek, "you're fine. It's okay."  
  
* * *   
  
Derek checks his cupboards again: there's plenty of food, the kind of thing Stiles' eats, and the kind of thing the doctors recommend for omegas in heat, which one has to feed them as they're not generally hungry for the duration.   
  
This time around he's better educated. Last time he didn't know what an omega's body was supposed to feel like when it was ready for knotting; now he does: Deaton kindly demonstrated with different intensities of his clenched fist around two of Derek's fingers.

TBC


	2. The Buildup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly think I forgot how hot this fic is. Prepare yourselves, dear readers.

Stiles sits in the parking lot of Derek's building for a whole ten minutes giving himself a pep talk. He's thankful Derek can't hear--or smell, for that matter--him because it's bad enough that he has to do this.  
  
"Okay, Stiles," he says to his reflection in the rearview mirror. "You can do this. So what if the whole 'losing your virginity' thing sucked? Everyone's first time sucks. Since yours did, too, then that just gives you one reason to be considered normal, right?"   
  
He pauses to fiddle with his hair and pop a couple of tick-tacs. His heat hasn't yet begin to crest (or even start) but Derek asked him to come over tonight since it's  _supposed_  to start, and his dad already okayed the whole thing, even signed papers over it. He still can't believe his dad brought out the paperwork in the first place, let alone signed it, but whatever.   
  
"You are going to go in there and be a  _normal_  omega, because this is  _totally normal_  and you are going to blow his Alpha mind."   
  
He gives himself a too-wide smile, and it deflates after a moment.   
  
"I am going to completely fuck this up somehow," he sighs, grabbing his backpack and climbing out of the jeep.   
  
The walk up to Derek's apartment feels like a funeral march. Every step feels like he's one second closer to death. In his bag he's packed a couple changes of clothes, some granola bars, and a water bottle. He thought about throwing in the KY he uses to jack off, but since his body produces more than enough lubricant, he tossed it aside with burning cheeks. They probably wouldn't need it, and he didn't want to look paranoid by bringing any.   
  
At the top of the stairs, he takes a deep breath, mentally reviews his checklist one more time and reaches up to knock on the door. If he makes it through this heat, it will be an absolute miracle. 

 

The moment he sees him he knows something is off; he just doesn't  _get_  excited. A rush wells in his chest -- which he tamps down, of course, as he sweeps Stiles inside and closes the door behind him.  
  
"You're late," he notes, "something wrong?"   
  
Already he's pulling at Stiles' jacket as though he's usually anything resembling a good or conscientious host. He hangs it on the back of a chair and uses the opportunity to squeeze the boy's slightly barer shoulders, tracing the lean muscle through his t-shirt.  
  
"Nervous?" he presses, leaning in to scent him.  
  
Stiles  _does_  seem anxious. Under normal circumstances Derek would be off-put by that kind of apprehension, but as it is his own heat seems to be rising, which becomes clear to him as the very sensation of the other's skin through the fabric of his shirt sends tingling pulses of pleasure through his wrists.

 

"Sorry, just . . . my dad held me up," Stiles lies, not even sparing a thought to the fact that Derek will hear the skip in his heartbeat. It's already pounding like mad, anyway. He rubs his hands up and down his bare arms. It's chilly in Derek's apartment, probably in preparation for his heat.   
  
"Sooo . . . " he says nervously, striding across the floor of the apartment in a half-hearted attempt to put distance between himself and Derek. He's nowhere near ready for this, and the reality is just beginning to set it.   
  
Stiles stops in front of the big window that looks out over the city. Downtown Beacon Hills isn't much to look at, but it's better than nothing. "You . . . have a great view," he says lamely, pretending to be very interested in the landscape he's seen hundreds of times. It gives him something to focus on.   
  
"You know that Dale's Barber Shop closed down?" he tacks on, fighting for something else to say. Pointing to the lonely red and white barber pole down on Main Street, he nods slowly. "Apparently old Dale finally gave up the ghost, but neither of his sons wanted to take over the family business. Can't say I blame them, honestly. If something ever happened to my dad, I am not prepared to be the new Sheriff. No way." He glances at Derek, giving him a weak laugh. 

 

At night the town seems almost postcard quaint. Derek settles into a chair at the desk and simply lets Stiles ramble, figuring he's blowing off steam.  
  
Though, he isn't doing a very good job of it. Even his laugh is somewhat pitiful, and Derek does his best to return a genuine-looking smile to ease some of the tension.   
  
"You want a drink, Stiles?" he offers.  
  
Normally he doesn't stock alcohol; it does nothing for him, and he doesn't like the taste. But in preparation for Stiles he's built up a handy little cache, though truth be told he had been expecting to offer it to him after the ordeal, when a bit of celebration and loosening up was in order.  
  
"I've got beer," he informs him, "food, too. Chips, dip, whole nine."  
  
He even picked up gushers, of all disgusting quasi-candy foods, on the off chance that Stiles would still be dealing with the last of his pre-heat hunger.

 

At the mention of food, Stiles perks up noticeably. He was too nervous to eat the dinner his dad made, and so he's quite pleased at Derek's offer, particularly because all he has in his backpack are granola bars.   
  
He follows the Alpha into the kitchen and his stomach growls audibly when Derek shows him bag after bag of potato chips, cookies, crackers, and even those chocolate chip "mini muffins" that Stiles can devour by the pallet. He's got all kinds of lunch meat and bread and mustards and mayonnaise, and fresh fruit. There's also a drawer full of complete junk: twizzlers and miniature snickers and poptarts and skittles, but Stiles plans to leave the good 'n plenty for Derek. It's like the Alpha bought out the Sav-Mor and had it delivered to his kitchen. He may be terrible at voicing his emotions, but he sure knows how to feed teenage boys.   
  
Completely without remorse or shame, Stiles fixes himself a sandwich with salami, roast beef, turkey, swiss, cheddar, lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, doritos and three slices of bread. He has to mash the whole thing down just to get it in his mouth, but when he does, it's like heaven on rye. He adds to his plate a handful fritos and a banana. It's not even a thought to stop and assess Derek's opinion on the whole thing because he doesn't care. He's a seventeen-year-old omega who should be going in to heat any minute now, and if he wants to eat Derek out of house and home, then he'll do however he damn well pleases.   
  
The pizza rolls he knows Derek is hiding in the freezer, though, he plans to save for breakfast. He just hopes there are hot pockets, too. 

 

On any other occasion watching someone eat that -- thing? sandwich? stacked slop heap? -- would turn his stomach and offend him morally. But presently, beyond all reason, watching Stiles eat suffuses him with a sense of well-being and comfort.  
  
Part of it is that he's watching Stiles, even in some roundabout way, be  _filled._ He can surmise with little imagination what it must feel like, the heavy full settling sensation in the pit of his belly, and he knows there will be echoes of that same contentment later.  
  
Another part is merely that Alphas, especially those in the breeding mood, like to see their omegas healthily eating. It bodes well for procreation, even if that isn't precisely their goal at the moment.   
  
"That's uh, wow."  
  
The sandwich is gone in no time flat, and Derek gets a bit more hot and bothered watching Stiles consume the banana. When he's washed it all down and doesn't seem capable of shoveling anything else into his throat at the moment, Derek catches his eyes.  
  
"You're nervous," he says, flatly, without judgment. "Why?"

 

Stiles is in the middle of opening a "fun size" packet of m&ms when Derek levels him with that dark stare and asks why he's nervous. Presently, Stiles' hands slip on the bag he holds and m&ms fly in about a hundred directions. Fortunately, there are only about 20 in the bag, and he busies himself with trying to pick them all up so he doesn't have to worry about looking at Derek or answering him. When the m&ms are off the floor and melting steadily in his hands, he drops the mess in the trash and rinses his hands off before reaching for another packet. This one, he's careful to keep from spilling all over the floor.   
  
"Um," he says, popping one m&m into his mouth. He shrugs one shoulder. "It's my first  _real_ heat, and the first time we had sex was a complete and utter disaster, if you can even call it sex." It's the first honest thing he's said all day, but the words don't feel good coming out of his mouth. It feels like he's just played his ace, and now he's left bare.   
  
"Thanks for, um, all this. The food, and stuff. I guess you know that omegas eat a lot before heat." He shrugs again. "It's like we're storing up energy or something."   
  
He holds out his m&ms. "You want some?" 

 

Derek plucks the m&m out of his hand and tosses it in his mouth, where he crushes it in one chomp at the back of his jaw, level gaze never leaving Stiles' face.  
  
It was a disaster, their first go at things. He'd been painfully unaware of what to expect out of an omega virgin -- shamefully 'informed' by porn, but nothing substantive. Now he has a better grip, and he forces himself not to get too emotional about it while Stiles is so skittish.  
  
"Fair enough," he returns, rewarding the boy for his honesty.   
  
As always, Stiles is perceptive. Omegas really do store energy, so far as Derek knows, because their heats can be long and arduous and in the old world it was not uncommon for an Alpha to lock a heat-ridden omega away when they themselves had business or work to attend to. It was considered too dangerous to the omega's virtue to let anyone else care for them, even other omegas. In those times it was paramount that an omega had enough food to make it through.  
  
But now the world is more civil. Alphas don't lock omegas away, and they can easily apply for time off work to spend with their omegas: it's even somewhat celebrated.   
  
And Derek intends to keep up that general spirit of reverence.   
  
"Do you think it'd help to see me?" he offers simply, leaning on the counter. "My body, I mean. Up close. No pressure."  
  
He figures it was dark last time and they were incredibly close -- there's no way Stiles had the chance to memorize the planes and angles and scars and marks of his body. But perhaps if he does, he supposes, he'll feel more comfortable with the idea of spending the next few days with it.

 

The arousal that spikes through Stiles' body has absolutely nothing to do with heat, but it's enough to get him interested in the proceedings. Derek Hale's body is like a marble statue, and the fact that he's offering to let Stiles  _look_ at it with no strings attached is enough to make him start salivating like a dog waiting for table scraps.   
  
He tosses the rest of the m&ms in his mouth to get rid of them (it's a little much for a mouthful and he has to fight around sugar and chocolate to chew and swallow quickly) and then it takes a few minutes longer than he wants to wait before he can talk.   
  
"Yes," he croaks, and then coughs. The m&ms got stuck in the wrong part of this throat, and he tried to swallow and speak using only his trachea. "Yes, please. That would be . . . I think that would be really great," he says, trying not to sound too eager. It's entirely plausible that Derek will play this quid pro quo, but it's not like they've never seen each other naked, and he's here to have sex anyway. he just doesn't know what to do with his body right now.   
  
He crosses his ankle over the opposite thigh and drums his fingertips on the kitchen table in an effort to look as normal and as natural as possible. 

 

When he'd made his offer he hadn't intended to strip right there in the kitchen -- it is a bit chilly, after all, in anticipation of their heats -- but he figures it'll drive home his point about 'no pressure' if he doesn't take things immediately to the bedroom.  
  
So he pulls another of the chairs around, directly across from Stiles, and stands before it, squarely in the teen's line of vision.  
  
And he smiles at him, cheekily almost; there's little else to do when preparing to give a strip tease.  
  
Not that there's much teasing to it: Derek crosses his forearms and peels his henley off in one easy tug, letting it fall on the table. Next he goes to his belt buckle, and in the ensuing feat of dexterity cords and tendons in his arms jump and flex in an easy rhythm. He peels the belt away, and -- with a last flickering glance up at Stiles -- unbuttons his jeans and lowers the zipper.  
  
Derek's thighs are strong and thick and dusted thoroughly with black hair. Already he's slightly hard, due to the beginning of his own heat, but only very barely, and the cold does plenty to discourage him as soon as he pushes down the navy blue jersey of his boxers.  
  
He is, of course, a well-endowed man, nothing practical joke sized, but impressive nonetheless despite being flaccid. Due to the cold, his sac is drawn slightly upward to his body, but is nonetheless evidently full and heavy. His penis is nestled among a glossy patch of black curls that trail up to his navel in a fading line of soft dark hairs. When he's naked, he holds both palms out as if to display that he's finished, and shrugs.  
the   
"All yours," he says, nudging the chair closer with his ankle. He sits, then, knee-to-knee with Stiles, and reclines to let him have his view of things.

 

For a long moment, all Stiles can do is stare and drink in the image before him. Beneath the bronze skin that looks painted on are ridge after ridge of hard muscle. Stiles' eye is automatically drawn to the line down Derek's chest, between his pecks, over his navel, and finally his gaze lands on the quiescent flesh between Derek's legs. For some reason, the sight makes his mouth water.   
  
His eyes flick up to catch Derek's dark gaze, almost as though expecting the Alpha to chastise him, but Derek meets his eyes evenly.   
  
"Can I," Stiles has to lick his lips before he can finish his question. "Can I touch you?"  
  
Derek nods, and Stiles feels like he's just been given a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.   
  
He shuffles forward, mouth hanging open in awe. He starts by running his fingertips whisper-soft down Derek's bare chest. He's lightly furred, like a bear-- _or a wolf_ , his mind supplies--and Stiles can't help but twist his fingers into the dark curls. They're softer than they look, and he can't wait to feel that all over his body.   
  
Moving lower, Stiles maps out Derek's body by hand. It's more exploratory than sexual, this venture, and he takes his time noting the dips and curves and scars and marks. Above him, Derek supplies the answers as he asks, and almost unwittingly, Stiles finds himself relaxing. When he finishes his exploration, he's sitting on the floor at Derek's feet, his cheek resting on the Alpha's bare thigh as he stares up at the older man.   
  
"I don't feel my heat, yet."

 

Looking down at him is a heady kind of rush. It only takes a little imagination to envision his head between Derek's thighs, bobbing with dedication, those juicy lips spilling saliva all along his dick. Derek can feel his knot swell at the very thought, and he takes a deep, sharp breath to calm it down.  
  
"That's...probably normal," he submits, running his hand gently over Stiles' hair. The kid has the softest skin and hair on the planet; especially in the midst of his own heat, Derek feels he could touch him for days.  
  
"We could watch something," he offers with a shrug. He does have movies, mostly artsy ones he doubts the teen will care for. But there are other types, too. "Y'know...maybe something to help get you in the mood?"

 

"Are you asking me if I want to watch  _porn_?" And then, for some reason, Stiles finds this so hilarious he doubles over with laughter. It takes him some time to calm down, and it's only when he realizes that Derek is completely serious that he sobers.   
  
"Yeah, totally." He nods to underscore his interest. What teenage boy  _wouldn't_ want to watch porn? "Do you have like a . . . collection?" He eyes Derek with trepidation that he doesn't really feel. He really just wants to get his hands on the Alpha's porn.  
  
Stiles shoots up off the floor like a jack-in-the-box. He seems to remember, then, that Derek is still naked, and he, himself, is still fully-clothed. "Do you want me to . . . uhh . . . " Plucking at the fabric of his t-shirt, he gives Derek a questioning look. While he's not quite ready to  _get naked_ , he's not sure what Derek wants.   
  
"If it's awkward or something, I mean . . ." He's not sure what he's offering or asking, so he just shuts his mouth with a click. 

 

Derek stands and gives him an amiable sort of half-grin, looking him over from head to toe.  
  
"You could at least lose the shirt," he submits, tugging briefly at the collar before stepping into his boxers and heading up the spiral staircase to the upper loft.  
  
In the moments it takes Stiles to follow, he makes a very brief selection from a much larger library of tightly organized DVDs. The main categories are 'HET' and 'GAY', with no lesbian accompaniment, because of a certain preference for dick in his sexual entertainment. There are, however, female solo shows in the HET category, which still remain HET in his mind because he, a man, is the subject of the viewing.   
  
He chooses the GAY category for the night, however, and among that broad family can pick from a further three genres: A/O, PREG, AMA. Amateur, which contains his exes section, doesn't seem the right course for the night; Stiles will doubtlessly not want to compare himself to non-professionals. And PREG is too high pressure.  
  
Under A/O, he's categorized the boxes by actor and sex act. He picks out five favorites, each featuring knotting, and meets Stiles with them, displayed like a hand of cards. The boxes have no pictures, only labels, because most of them are ripped from the net rather than purchased. Only a precious few production companies are worth buying from, in his estimation.  
  
"They're all good," he offers up lightly, "whichever you want."

 

Stiles takes the discs from Derek with shaking hands. He shed his shirt before climbing the stairs, but the tremble is not from a chill. In his hands, he holds five titles:  _Hank Takes his First Knot_ ,  _Nothing Butt Knotting_ ,  _A Knot in Time_ ,  _Knot My Dirty Hole 3, My Alpha's Knot, My Hero_. They all sound equal parts tittilating and cheesy, and Stiles has a hard time choosing one. He practically has to close his eyes and pick, but he decides on  _A Knot in Time._ It sounds vaguely like something he would be interested in, even though he's sure he'll be more interested in Derek than the porn.   
  
"This one," he says, sliding the jewel case out of Derek's hands. It has no cover, unfortunately, for him to judge, but just holding the promise in his hands is enough to set his heart racing.   
  
The upper portion of the loft is where Derek sleeps, and the only available surface for sitting is the bed, but Stiles supposes that's appropriate. He busies himself with popping the DVD into the player and fiddling with the controls. The porn starts with no preamble, and it takes Stiles aback for a second. He fumbles for the pause button.   
  
"Woah," he says, turning around to face Derek. "I wasn't expecting that . . . so soon." He smiles nervously, looking from the Alpha to the bed and back. Suddenly this whole thing seems very  _real_ , and his heat feels too far off. 

 

_A Knot in Time_ is one of those standby favorites for when nothing sounds particularly appealing. He knows it'll turn him on absolutely every time, no matter what he's in the mood for. After all, there's very little not to like: it's shot well, lit well, the pacing is to-the-point, and the dialogue is so sparse as to not be overly distracting. In fact, in terms of communication, there's almost an amateur feel, as though the director let them wing it.  
  
And the two of them are gorgeous. The omega is some fair blond college boy with keen, almost Nordic-seeming features, aquiline nose and piercing blue eyes, quite narrow. His cheekbones are high and sharp and his jaw tapers to an equally severe chin, delicate in its acuteness. His body is healthy, firm, he could easily be an athlete of some kind with lean natural muscle and fairly broad shoulders.  
  
The Alpha is a taller, slightly older man with cinnamon-bronze skin and bright green eyes. Derek is almost always distracted by the fullness of his lips, especially the cleft in the lower one. He manages to affect an almost gentle way with the omega, though he maneuvers him without question, and his knot is perhaps the thickest Derek has ever seen. It makes his heart race each time the camera closes in on it pressing against the omega's pink, puffy hole.   
  
Derek pats the bed beside him and waits for Stiles to settle in. He picks up the remote with one hand and begins rubbing slow, warming circles between the teen's shoulder blades with the other.  
  
"Relax," he says, though he can imagine that isn't easy. "It's good."  
  
When he presses play the Alpha resumes his fingering, spreading index and middle wide in the omega's hole. The camera zooms in enough to catch a glimpse of tender pink inside, juicy with slick.  
  
"He's in heat too," Derek murmurs, almost reverent.

 

Stiles' cock goes from half-hard to ramrod straight in an instant. Watching the omega on screen get fingered is enough to make him want to bend over and beg Derek to stick it in. Again. Even though that didn't work so well the first time.   
  
He almost expects to feel a gush of wetness from his rear, but no such luck. His heat seems to be stubbornly off-stage, despite all of Derek's attempts to coax it out of hibernation. Undoubtedly, it will heat with both of them least expect it.   
  
"Yeah, it's . . . " Stiles licks his lips slowly, becoming painfully aware of his breath. "It's something, all right."   
  
Beside him, Derek is like a blanket of heat, but instead of being cloying, it only makes Stiles want to rip their clothes off and rub himself all over the Alpha. He's still nervous about having sex (for real, this time) but his arousal is beginning to override his fear.   
  
On the screen, the Alpha has begun to rim his omega in earnest, pink tongue digging deep into the wet spread of the omega's hole. For a moment, Stiles is afraid he's going to have to go jack off in the bathroom, lest he blow his wad in his jeans before Derek ever gets them off.   
  
"That is so fucking hot," he whispers, almost forgetting the Alpha next to him as he loses himself in the porn. 

 

Alpha heats are different: they settle rather than crashing, soak in rather than crest. Derek has been comfortably riding the pleasure and swell of sensation that accompanies his heat all day, but he still can't imagine what must be keeping Stiles' at bay.  
  
Briefly he wonders if they lack chemistry. The thought is deeply troubling: what then? There really is very little recourse when, for whatever reason, an omega's body responds to wisdom deeper and subtler than conscious thought and refuses the body of an Alpha...  
  
Which is definitely  _not_  what's happening on screen. The Alpha pulls away, chin and lips shining with slick, and delivers a final broad lap to the omega's twitching hole.  
  
"Gets better," Derek murmurs, and it does. For a moment the Alpha leans close and just  _blows_  lightly against the dripping pucker, and the jet of air alone is enough to have him bucking and squirming.   
  
But he doesn't penetrate him; just teases. They reverse their positions, and the Alpha presents his omega with his knot, which the other eagerly begins to suck at, groaning in his throat.  
  
Derek is running his hand down the length of Stiles' bare back now, letting his fingertips dip into the back of his jeans and boxers, with the index just edging at the crevice of his ass.

 

Dick sucking doesn't do nearly as much for Stiles as the rimming; it's also due to his biology as an omega. The knot-worship is designated for the Alphas, anyway. Not many omegas are aroused by watching another omega give his or her Alpha's knot a tongue bath.   
  
"I can only imagine," Stiles breathes. The omega he's watching finishes his blow job and bends over the table on their set, spreading his legs as wide as he can. The camera zooms in on his twitching, leaking hole, and Stiles feels a pang of sympathy as a glob of slick dribbles out and slides down the omegas leg. If he could will his body to begin producing slick and trigger his heat, he would.   
  
Despite the dryness in his boxers, Stiles begins to fidget. At first, it's just small movements, adjusting his hips, cracking his knuckles, but soon he can hardly sit still, and he's sure Derek is going to chastise him, but the Alpha just keeps rubbing his hand up and down Stiles' back, which the omega finds equal parts maddening and arousing.   
  
"It's hot in here. I'm getting really hot. Are you getting hot?" As the scene before them progresses, Stiles' arousal level begins to ratchet, and with it, his internal temperature.   
  
"I'm just gonna . . . " He stands up and wiggles out of his jeans, trying not to feel awkward about it. Derek is already in his boxers, and he  _came here for sex, anyway._ With his dad's permission, even. His cock tents the plaid material of his shorts, bobbing as he sits back down on the couch. He spares it a cursory touch, more to situate it than stimulate it. The cool air feels better on his skin, and he's able to give his attention back to the couple on the television. 

 

Of course, he doesn't have  _permission,_ exactly, to do whatever he'd like. Rather, he made some very serious agreements with the Sheriff as to what he'd pursue and what he'd leave -- but none of those contracts designated when he'd start, or how. And though Stiles isn't quite in heat yet, Derek is finding it very hard to keep off of him.  
  
The omega bent over the table on tape groans deep and throaty as his Alpha's cock slides home, all the way to his plump knot.  
  
And Derek can just imagine how he feels, finally driving himself into that slick and pulsing hole, absolutely  _hungry_  to be filled. The ease of tension is almost palpable; the omega goes slack, mouth open, a little puddle of saliva forming near his lips.  
  
Derek presses his nose against Stiles' neck and scents him thoroughly, hand now steadying him by his back, and then laves his tongue over the omega's pulse point.  
  
In another gesture he could easily be marking him, but he keeps his fangs suppressed. Instead he fixes his mouth against the soft skin there, sucking firmly but constantly until a flushed red bruise arises. He trails them down toward his shoulder, lapping at the dip of his collar bone, and lets his hand smooth over the top of Stiles' thigh, nudging toward his sex.

 

Stiles' breath catches in his throat. He's positively  _throbbing_ by now. He wants nothing more than to climb on top of Derek's lap and shove himself all the way down on the Alpha's dick, even past the point of his knot. What holds him back is the fact that his heat is still, stubbornly, nowhere to be found. There is no slick to guide the way, and Stiles is afraid to rely on just lube. He doesn't know if Derek even has any, anyway.   
  
"That's good," he stutters, shifting as subtly as possible into Derek's hands. "That's . . . that's really good. You can keep doing that. Totally. Like, don't . . . you don't need to stop. I'll totally just sit here and let you do that. All night if you want."   
  
He finally releases from his throat a low mewl of pleasure at the feelings cursing through him. Nobody has ever made him feel this good. It's like he's simultaneously watching and participating in the porn on Derek's television. Except for the sex, of course.   
  
"Could you, maybe, ahh . . . " Stiles slips his fingers through the creases between Derek's and nudges their joined hands closer to his dick. Right now, he'd probably be willing to take Derek  _dry_ just to get a little friction. 

 

Derek has no objections to stroking Stiles off; on the contrary, his cock gives an approving pulse at the thought. The only difficulty will be limiting the handjob to nothing more than  _hands,_ because as much as he wants Stiles to enjoy himself and get comfortable with his body and sexuality, his own needs are making themselves known at an increasingly insistent pitch. But his heat works in his favor. Were he clear-headed and less affectionate, the half-painful erection in his shorts would likely be less a matter of exquisite discomfort and more a matter of  _right fucking now.  
  
_ Stiles' shorts are loose and elastic enough to work his way to the teen's sex through the opening of one leg. Heat radiates off his groin, and for a moment Derek merely cups his balls, rolling them softly in his palm, feeling the sear.   
  
 _He's hotter than that inside,_  he muses, and will be warmer still when his heat crests. Derek shudders.  
  
And since the foreplay is working -- Derek would never have guessed Stiles would be the type to enjoy such protracted first-basemanship -- he keeps it up, running his lips wetly from the corner of the teen's jaw to the round of his shoulder, then up again to his bobbing Adam's apple and the hollow of his throat. Stiles is positively covered with fresh hickeys, some of them so new and deep their centers are whitish pale.   
  
Derek releases his balls gently and circles the base of his penis, squeezing firm. Stiles  _is_  rock hard, but he can tell from the dryness there's no heat yet, which dismays him, but he persists, dragging his fist up in a tight, slow stroke.   
  
"You like that?" he murmurs raggedly against his ear, more breath than voice.

 

"Nghhhh . . . yessss." Stiles' words are little more than a guttural exhalation, but he's sure Derek understands what he means. His hips pump into Derek's hand seemingly of their own accord, though he's not complaining.   
  
At this point wearing boxers is just stupid, so Stiles stops Derek long enough to shimmy out of his shorts and leave them in a puddle on the floor. Nude, he's able to spread out a little bit more on the couch. It not only gives him a better view of the screen, but also more access to Derek's body. He stretches his long limbs out, settling his head on Derek's bare thigh.   
  
Initially, Stiles just takes the tip of Derek's cock into his mouth, nursing at it like a babe. He wedges his back against the couch, settling almost into the crack between the cushions so he can watch the television and suck Derek's cock without disturbing the hand on his own cock. He feels like a most treasured omega--as he well should--and it makes him want to purr like a cat. His life could not be more perfect than it is at this moment.   
  
The on-screen duo have reached the point of knotting, and Stiles feels a pang of jealously at the look of pure rapture on the omega's face. His Alpha is buried to the very hilt inside him, and the camera pans slowly into the crease between the omegas legs to get a good shot of the Alpha's cock pumping deeply inside him. Stiles hazards a quick check of his own hole, but his fingers come back dry. Truth be told, he's starting to panic ever-so-slightly.   
  
There are omegas who have one heat and then for one reason or another become barren. It's not a common phenomenon, but it's not unheard of. Roughly one in ten omegas will become barren, and while they aren't pariahs in society, they aren't exactly sought-after, either. Usually, they live alone, with other barren omegas, or with betas. The unbreedable tend to stick together, but those who are born omegas fear barren status almost more than death. It's almost enough to give Stiles a panic attack. 

 

Stiles' tongue touches the head of his penis almost exploratorily and Derek's hips jolt; he has to restrain himself with extraordinary effort to keep from thrusting into the boy's mouth right then and there. Most omegas, even the lustiest, can't handle a knot in the mouth without a pretty good deal of practice, and that thought alone has the tip of Derek's cock weeping onto Stiles' wet lips.   
  
"You like that?" Derek wonders aloud, voice thick and hazy with desire. His eyes fix on Stiles' mouth, the way it moves around him, and the shadows that fall over his cheeks when his lashes flutter. He strokes over the boy's shoulder with a warm palm, and then takes hold of his cock again, stroking.   
  
And though he doesn't mean to frighten him -- he already seems nervous -- he can't really resist a feel, at least.  _No penetration,_ he reminds himself firmly as his hand drifts down the smooth plane of Stiles' stomach and over his waist, fingers playing for a moment at the dip of his spine. The tips of them trail down into the cleft of his ass, and though he hopes for that tell-tale rush of moisture, he prepares himself for the possibility that Stiles' heat still hasn't hit.  
  
It hasn't, it seems. Derek gives a low hum of approval anyway, and gently passes the pad of his index finger over the tight pucker of Stiles' hole. It's as satiny-smooth and inviting as he remembers, hotter than the rest of his body, and just the sensation swells his knot.   
  
"You like dirty talking?" he probes, supposing that, if nothing else, might tickle whatever it is in Stiles that still resists his heat. It seems like something the kid might enjoy -- he likes talking, anyway.

 

For as aroused and excited as he seems on the outside, Stiles is practically shaking like a leaf on the inside. His mind is like an audio track of failure on repeat. All he can think about is the fact that if his heat doesn't start soon, he  _won't ever_ be able to be bred, or carry children, like the filthy words spilling out of Derek's mouth say.   
  
Normally, dirty talk sends him from mildly aroused to  _holy hell orgasm now!_ but tonight all it's doing is reminding him of how  _dry_ and  _barren_ his hole is. It's only a matter of time before Derek realizes he's made a horrible mistake and asks Stiles to leave.   
  
He feels a sob welling in his chest at the thought of Derek asking him to leave, and it's almost more than Stiles can take. Before he makes an even bigger fool out of himself, he jerks away from the Alpha in a less-than-fluid movement. It's more like a flailing of limbs that almost results in him falling to the floor before he can right himself.   
  
"Uh--bathroom," he chokes out awkwardly, and then dashes off before Derek can stop him.   
  
The door slams shut with more force than Stiles meant to use, and he throws the lock over. In his haste, he forgets that Derek could burst into the bathroom with his werewolf strength if he so wanted, but he's not sure Derek is going to be seeking him out for anything at all right now.   
  
Stiles makes a show of flushing the toilet after a few moments and then running his wrists under cold water. He also splashes his face, and stares at his reflection for several long minutes.   
  
"You have got to get it together, Stiles," he tells himself. "Either your heat comes and Derek fucks you, or it doesn't, and you're permanently ruined goods. If you've got to suck his dick for the next 12 hours to make yourself lubricate, then you better get the hell out there and do it."   
  
He feels much less confident than he sounds, but what he needs right now is some courage, no matter how worthless it may be. 

 

_They get so emotional.  
  
_ A haze lifts once Stiles is gone -- the effect of his pheremones dissipating, Derek surmises -- and the Alpha is left with raised brows, staring blankly at the bathroom door.   
  
It seems likelier that Stiles is hiding in the bathroom than using it, he thinks. This close to a heat, most digestion is put on hold. And this is taking way longer than a leak.  
  
Derek sits up, sucks in a deep breath, and presses his knuckles to his temples.   
  
 _He's young,_ he tells himself,  _and nervous._ Though it isn't clear to him why Stiles' body is still resisting, it doesn't much worry him, either: the anxious ones always struggle, and Stiles is wound up tight on a good day. Right now he's nearly rigid with apprehension; even when he was sucking dick he was going at it jerkily and self-consciously, with an almost frantic upward-glancing technique.  
  
Not that it was bad, of course, but it confirmed for Derek that he needs to slow things down a notch, lest the kid have a full-on panic attack. He doesn't even want to imagine  _that_  kind of phonecall to the sheriff.   
  
"Stiles?" he calls, idly holding his dick as he knocks on the door. Already he's going a bit soft, though still more or less erect. The thought of Stiles distressed just isn't erotic, and the smell is even less so.   
  
"Look," he tries, clearing his throat to keep his voice low and steady, "it's late, I'm tired, let's just go to bed, okay? We'll figure it out in the morning."

 

At the sound of Derek's words, Stiles heart plummets through his stomach. This is it. This is the end. They're going to retire to bed, and in the morning, Derek is going to ask him to leave. He's got to do something, and he's got to do it fast.   
  
Throwing open the door to the medicine cabinet, Stiles scans the shelves quickly, and his gaze lands on an expensive tube of lubricant that makes him sigh in relief. As quickly as he can, he shoves his boxers back down his thighs, snaps open the cap on the lube, and smears some in his palm. Two fingers hurt going in, but he screws his eyes shut and forces himself to keep going. He goes back for lube twice, making sure there's enough to keep him dripping. He's got to make this look real.   
  
Stiles flies out of the bathroom and throws himself into Derek's arms, kissing the Alpha like mad before he can say anything. The omega's heart is nearly hammering out of his chest, but he throws himself into the act with all his strength.   
  
"My heat," he pants, pulling away long enough to talk, "It's starting." The lie comes to his mouth easily; he just hopes Derek will buy it.   
  
He kisses Derek again, harder than the first time. Their teeth clack together audibly and Stiles forces himself to moan into the kiss. His dick, traitor that it is, has only managed to reach half-mast. Stiles' mind races, trying to pull together enough clips from porn he's seen to get himself going full tilt before Derek realizes something isn't right. 

 

Stiles folding into his arms is the most satisfying, fulfilling sensation he thinks he's ever felt; ten liters of cold water on a burning hot day have nothing on it, nor a breath of air after a deep dive, nor falling into bed exhausted. Derek moans audibly and lets himself be led into frantic kissing, tilting his head to accommodate the sweet tip of Stiles' nose.   
  
And he holds him tight, sure this is  _it,_ and what they need when their heat crests is to be anchored -- he's learned that much from the solemn, almost spiritual conversations Alphas have in privacy when they're feeling contemplative. His forearms press into Stiles' back, and his hand moves down, squeezing one handful of ass cheek and then the next, fingers delving into the crease.  
  
There is wetness there -- not exactly the sloppy deluge he expects, but more than the previous hour's bone dryness.   
  
Derek presses his mouth to Stiles' cheek and then his ear, breathing obscenities into it, and then moves down to the juncture of neck and shoulder to peer behind him as he marks him reddish-blue.  
  
He pulls his fingers, now thoroughly coated with slick, away from Stiles' body. When he parts them, however, the strands don't cling: his fingers open neatly, the slick coating each of them but not stretching between. There's a shine to it, but it's not the diamond-gleam of real omega slick.  
  
 _Lube.  
  
_ Derek breaks the kiss slowly, still holding him tight, and looks evenly into his face.  
  
"Stiles," he pants, "babe, you sure you don't just -- want to sleep?"

 

Stiles' heart clenches with fear.  _I'm going to be found out._  
  
"What? Noooo . . . why?" He stumbles over his own words, mind racing 1,000 miles an hour. He's running through ever conceivable possibility from _Derek knows I'm lying_ to  _Maybe Derek's too tired to fuck and really_ does  _want to sleep._ The second idea seems too good to be true, but looking in to the Alpha's greyblue eyes he can see nothing other than sincerity.   
  
A yawn makes it's way up and out of Stiles' mouth--the first honest vocalization he's made all night.   
  
"We could. Go lay down. If you want to. I guess." Retiring to the bedroom could also be Derek's invitation to have sex, so Stiles prepares himself for either option. No matter what, getting an Alpha into the bedroom is  _not_ getting himself turned out on his ear, so he has to look at it as a positive either way.   
  
Then Stiles kisses him again for good measure. He'll never tire of the feeling of Derek's mouth against his own, the scratch of the werewolf's beard against his cheek. If he never gets to do this again, he'll be thankful for the memory of just Derek's kiss. 

 

Fortunately for situations like these, his sheets are black.  
  
Underneath the fitted top sheet, there's a layer of plastic: one of those special mattress covers you can purchase for omega heats. He had to prove to the sheriff that he'd purchased one, because leaving wet sheets on top of a wet mattress can cause sores and rashes, and thus Derek will change the top sheet after every long, soaking session, and Stiles' skin will be returned to his father creamy and flawless as ever.  
  
Derek peels back the comforter and pats the revealed space, climbing into his own spot.  
  
On the nightstand there are water bottles and washcloths, all of them stacked together neatly in preparation. Derek has made himself ready for any contingency: sometimes they overheat to the point of feverish discomfort and need to be cooled; other times they dehydrate and grow faint; sometimes they just feel sweat-sticky and cum-stained and benefit from an in-bed sponge bath.  
  
And other times, he supposes, they just need to get some rest and let their nerves settle.  
  
"C'mere," he murmurs, having tugged the lamp chain and cast the room into darkness. He opens his arms for Stiles and waits for him to draw close enough to gather up to his softly furred chest.   
  
"Just get some rest," he urges him, "okay?"

 

Though his mind is still a flurry of fear and uncertainty, Stiles forces himself to calm down. He has never handled stress well, and the fatigue of his body is beginning to overtake the mania of his mind.   
  
Against the power of Derek's strong arms and his warm blankets, Stiles is useless. He cuddles close to the Alpha, allowing the werewolf to wrap him up in body heat and security. It's the best he's felt all day, and unwittingly, he feels himself slipping easily into sleep. 

 

TBC


	3. The Real Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> . . . in which we meet Stiles' oral fixation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of like the finale of "How I Met Your Mother," only not at all.

Stiles wakes sometime in the night because he's suffocating. He kicks off the blankets, pushes Derek away, and strips himself to the skin. Even with the ceiling fan on, the room feels like it's about 200 degrees. Grabbing a water bottle off the night stand, Stiles pads softly out of the bedroom. He saw a thermostat in the hall, and he heads there now. The glowing screen reads 72 degrees, and Stiles cranks it down to 68.   
  
He drains the remainder of the water as he walks back into the bedroom, and his heat really  _hits_. Dimly, he can hear the A/C kick on, but suddenly his dick is like a heat-seeking missile between his legs, and all he wants is to be filled and stretched by an Alpha's knot.   
  
Slipping back onto the bed, Stiles carefully removes the covers from Derek's body. The Alpha is still wearing his boxers, and Stiles can only see them as an obstacle. Fearing he will wake Derek too soon, Stiles settles himself between the Alpha's slightly spread legs and just begins to mouth at the outline of Derek's cock through the fabric. It's enough to pacify the raging storm in his belly for the moment, but he knows before long, Derek is going to have to wake up and fuck Stiles through the mattress.   
  
Almost as soon as his mouth lands on Derek's cock, he feels his hole disgorges a glob of omega slick, and he huffs a breath against the dick in his mouth with relief. 

 

No matter how many times he's dreamt of Stiles crawling into his bed to worship his knot, he's never woken up to it. Derek sits up with a faint startle, hyper-sensitive from his heat, and immediately peers down at the boy with lust-darkened, half-hooded eyes. Stiles has never seemed as feral as he does in that moment, crouching between Derek's thighs, swan-like neck bent to lap at his Alpha's rapidly hardening cock.   
  
Derek pushes himself to sit and then takes to his knees, pitching forward to catch him in a kiss. But he can tell even before he tastes him that the heat has begun -- he can smell it, thick and sweet and musky, and the scent goes straight through his spine to his dick in a long, groan-inducing shudder.   
  
Sometimes he's caught the scent of an omega heat in public; when he used to jog before dawn he'd sometimes stop into the 24 hour market on the way home and find beleaguered Alphas stalking the aisles like zombies, picking up water and lotion and various eccentric foods, the results of nutritional cravings. Legend has it if they demand grapefruit, they're pregnant.  
  
But he's never inhaled it like this, never this close, never for him. When he's done washing out the other's mouth with is tongue, he dips his hand between those taut thighs, because nothing is off limits between them now.   
  
"There it is," he muses, fingers wet before they ever reach the puffy, sensitive rim. "Ready now?" For a moment he just teases the pucker with a fingertip, and then tests it with his thumb. The flesh yields easily, and he slides the whole of his thumb inside, all the way to the heel of his hand, hooking it against Stiles' prostate.   
  
Everything seems right, ready for his knot; Derek is breathing hard like a bull and just as ready to fuckhimfillhimbreed him -- somewhere in his mind the wolf is aroused, its senses blending with his.

 

The feeling of Derek's thumb inside him is good-- _great_ , even--but it's still not enough. Stiles clenches and bears down on it, but it's just not enough.   
  
Frustrated, he whines high in his throat and bounces himself up and down on the digit he's got.   
  
"Come on, Derek. Come on, I need you  _in_ me. Need your knot. Need to come. Needtocumneedtocumneedtocum. Oh, god, Derek, I need to cum. I need to cum  _now._ "  
  
He's riding Derek's thumb for all he's worth and pulling on his own dick like there's no tomorrow, but nothing seems to be helping the rising heat inside his body. He knows that what he needs most right now is his Alpha's knot, but he can't seem to make his limbs obey his commands. His whole body feels like it's made out of gelatin, and the only organ that is still working is his tongue, but even that lolls lamely out the side of his mouth as the pressure on his prostate increases.   
  
Finally Stiles gives up and sinks back onto the bed, arms and legs akimbo. The sheets make him feel like a pancake on a griddle and Derek's body looms over him like a pitcher of ice water.   
  
"Please," he whimpers, reaching out pathetically. 

 

In everything he does, Stiles is unique. Most omegas fold onto their hands and knees during the early, spasmodic stages of heat. Not Stiles: he lays back, expecting missionary or something like it even in the utter depths of his lust.   
  
It has a peculiar effect on Derek because, he imagines hazily, he himself is in heat. Squaring up behind a bent and begging omega would be easy to do while maintaining his composure, but as he lays his body over Stiles' and comes mouth-to-mouth with him in the full flush of his warmth and scent, all the affectionate tendencies of his heat are stirred and aggravated, and he feels the impulse to --  _love_ him well up suddenly.  
  
_He's going to freak the fuck out,_ he reminds himself; Stiles is too young, too horny, they don't know each other near well enough for this, but --   
  
As Derek moves the teen's legs to either of his hips and presses the leaking tip of his cock against his hole, he says he loves him. He says it against his cheek, breathing it into a wet red spot that's part hickey, part beard burn, and on some level hopes he doesn't hear it. But saying it alone gives him such pleasure that he repeats it, slurring, groaning at the edge of it as he pushes the head of his cock inside him.  
  
Stiles is tight and slick and sloppy and everything he could've imagined; it's like heaven, pure sensation, and his heart clenches because he's sure in that moment of clarity that he really does love him, and that he has to know.   
  
"You're fucking," he moans, "amazing, Stiles, you're fucking  _perfect."_

 

The words coming out of Derek's mouth are little more than noise to Stiles' ears at this point. The noises around him are like a white noise buzz clouding his senses. He clutches Derek like the Alpha is his last and only lifeline tethering him to the earth.   
  
Stiles comes almost as soon as Derek's dick gets inside him. It takes the edge off, but only for a moment. His head thrashes back and forth across the pillow. What he really needs is Derek's knot.   
  
His hole clenches tightly on every out-stroke as though he's afraid Derek is going to pull out and leave him, never mind the way they're clinging to one another. Omega slick is pooling on the sheets beneath Stiles' body. His thighs are sticky with it; Derek's cock is coated like the glaze on a donut. At this point, it's hard to tell where one of them ends and the other begins.   
  
Stiles thighs begin to tremble from being held in such a position for so long. He stretches his arms overhead, twisting his fingers together. His mouth still can't seem to form words, and his eyes are glassy with the effects of his heat. His skin no longer burns, but that's probably because Derek cools everything he touches on Stiles' body.   
  
Another orgasm crashes through him, and this time, Stiles wraps both arms and both legs around Derek like an octopus just to anchor himself through the tremors. 

 

A warm sticky pool of Stiles' cum has already accumulated in the valley of the boy's taut stomach, and Derek is curious to see how hard he'll come when he finally slides his knot inside. All kinds of porn caters to the his-first-knot fantasy, but Derek has never seen an omega take their first knot in real life, and the anticipation has his heart pounding harder than the workout his hips are getting.   
  
He doesn't have to tell Stiles to relax, but he murmurs it into the red-flushed sell of his ear anyway, and then pushes back, drawing his knees forward. It'll be easier, he figures, pulling and pushing at the same time; there's still a little resistance, because Stiles' isn't accustomed to the thickness of the knot, even though his body is slick and open and tingling for it.  
  
Derek's hands fix on those narrow hips, and he pulls Stiles up into his lap, still rocking into him rhythmically.   
  
His eyes flicker up to the other's sweat-dampened, slack face, and he keeps them there as he tugs him down, watching the pink wet rim of his hole adjust to the width of his cock, and finally the top of his knot.  
  
"Easy," he reminds him, voice low and rough and breathy; his teeth are bared in concentration, jaw tight. And when he finally seats his knot in the dripping heat of Stiles' ass, he's sure for a moment the orgasm it triggers will be for the rest of his life unsurpassed; he can feel the pleasure spark and spiral from the base of his spine to his chest. Heat blossoms in the pit of his stomach and radiates outward; the rest of him positively tingles, fingertips half-numb, vision swimming. With each jet of cum he groans until the groans subside to panting and them to breathy hums.

 

Derek's semen sets off some kind of nuclear explosion inside Stiles' body because all at once he's shaking and throbbing and moaning and crying and cumming and cumming and  _cummingcummingcumming_. He fights to simultaneously pull Derek's knot farther into his body and push it away because the pleasure is almost too much. It skirts the knife edge of pain, but somehow manages to bleed into pleasure like none he's ever felt before.   
  
Having sex while they're both in heat has got to be equatable to the kinds of drugs betas take because this feels like nothing in the world could possibly surpass the pleasure Stiles is feeling. His stomach is covered in cum--neither of them are even touching his dick anymore and he's still ejaculating--and he can feel it leaking out of his hole even past the plug Derek's knot has created.   
  
After what seems like an endless wave of crash after crash of pleasure, Stiles' mind finally begins to clear the fog, and he's left with a dull throbbing in his ass and a soreness in his throat, no doubt from screaming. Derek is wound around him, whispering words into his ear that Stiles can't make sense of, but he finds the tone of the Alpha's voice to be comforting. He rubs his cheek against Derek's bristled one, making a low noise in his throat, which is all he can seem to manage at the moment.   
  
His hands slide up and down Derek's sweaty flanks. He unlocks his ankles from around Derek's waist and lets his legs fall to the mattress. A popping sound issues from each of his hips, and with it, an accompanying sigh.   
  
"I think I'm over the crest," he finally manages to say, though his tongue feels like a wad of cotton in his mouth.

 

Stiles handles him like a lover. Derek tenses, but only briefly; he's fucked since Kate (plenty) but hasn't felt a touch like that since then, when she would reward him for being a good boy with that kind of fondling and soft kissing. He lets his lips rest against Stiles, not pushing, not parting, just lingering. He can taste the warm humidity of the teen's breath, and it's sweet, heady, intoxicating.   
  
"I think so, too," he rasps, when he gathers the composure to speak.   
  
Behind him he hears his phone buzz on the nightstand, reminding him that it's there. He scoops it up with a sore backwards reach, checks the screen -- five in the morning -- and idly hovers it above Stiles.  
  
Seems likely the kid will leave him -- why wouldn't he? But Derek doesn't want to forget this, in part because a growing suspicion warns him that it's not merely his heat that's producing words and gestures of love. He snaps a picture, and Stiles is beautiful in it, red-sweaty-flushed and covered in ropes and pools of cum.  
  
"Should take a bath," he murmurs.

 

At the sound of an artificial shutter on Derek's phone, Stiles cracks one eye open.   
  
"Did you just take a picture of me? Because, dude? Weak. Taking advantage of a man when he's down is just not cool." He throws one arm over his eyes. On any other day, he would demand the phone and erase the picture himself, but right now he can't bring himself to care, not when Derek's knot is still throbbing so deliciously inside of him, even if it's getting to be too much. Who would Derek show the picture to, anyway? He figures it's probably just a fuck-trophy, and Stiles could really care less. It's not like he expected Derek to  _mate_ him or something.   
  
"What time is it, anyway? After that marathon I feel like I could sleep for the next four days. My dad isn't expecting me home until like Sunday night, anyway, so we could totally just sleep all day." He deliberately says the earliest possible day his heat could finish because although the paperwork Derek signed  _technically_ allows Stiles to stay there until Tuesday, he's sure the Alpha will want to get rid of him as soon as possible. Teenagers aren't exactly easy to have around.   
  
He then remembers the stockpile of food downstairs and it takes all his strength of will (and common sense) not to rip himself off Derek's knot and go charging after the refrigerator. He also needs to clean himself off something fierce. No doubt, he stinks.   
  
"Do you have a rag or something?" Stiles gestures vaguely to the mess on his stomach. "I'm sort of . . . " He grimaces. "Disgusting." 

 

_Disgusting.  
  
_ Derek nods with a kind of solemn understanding. He can sympathize with Stiles wanting to get cleaned up, but the scent should be pleasing, not revolting. He himself is somewhat intoxicated by it, like one feels drawn by a heady incense that disorients and enchants. To be displeased with an Alpha's scent is more or less an omega's signal that any involvement will be short-lived.  
  
Which is his choice, Derek reminds himself: Stiles is young, and it wouldn't be right to seal him in anything permanent, no matter how perfectly he fits in his arms.  
  
He produces a smooth black butt plug from his nightstand, and takes Stiles' gawking at it as an opportunity to withdraw his knot. The distraction is helpful, and it slips free with less resistance than he imagined. He replaces it quickly with the plug, working without explanation, and then -- rises, stretches, and scoops the omega up in his arms like a new bride.  
  
"Don't want it all over the floor," he supplies,  _it_  referring, of course, to the copious amounts of cum pooled on and in Stiles' limber body.  
  
The bathroom is modern, mostly stainless steel and glass, and Derek lays Stiles on a towel by the bathtub as he fills the basin with warm water.

 

When Derek slides the plug inside Stiles' body, he's initially surprised, but that feeling turns quickly to satisfaction. He doesn't want to leak on the sheets, but more importantly, he doesn't want to lose the piece of Derek he's managed to receive.   
  
His limbs feel heavy, as though he's filled with lead, and he's thankful for Derek's strong arms around him. Had the Alpha expected him to walk to the bathroom, he surely would have fallen to the floor.   
  
When Derek makes as if to remove the plug, however, Stiles catches his wrist. "Leave it. Otherwise it will sort of mix with the bathwater." The heat of a blush burns his cheeks at the weak explanation, but he can't think of a better reason to keep Derek from removing the plug.   
  
Stiles can't stop from moaning in pleasure as Derek lowers him into the water. It's almost better than sex. Almost. Derek must have added from fragrant oils to the bath because it smells like eucalyptus and sandalwood.   
  
"So good," Stiles murmurs, letting his head fall back against the lip of the tub.

 

There's a stack of clean cloths on the edge of the tub, where some of the aromatics are. They ease human soreness and anxiety, but also play a rather useful role in werewolf healing processes; Deaton suggested them a long time ago, and Derek's always appreciate the tip. He unfolds one of the cloths and submerges it, wringing it before laying it softly against Stiles' neck.  
  
One of the dangers with omega heats is, of course, over-heating. Their temperatures can rise far too high far too quickly if they're not periodically cooled, and so Derek hopes the lukewarm water evaporating off of Stiles' skin will serve that purpose.  
  
It's the sort of concern a responsible Alpha would have, he tells himself, which is a pity: Stiles doesn't seem interested in the long haul. Derek methodically sweeps the cloth over his neck and shoulders and face, tidying carefully along his hairline, where sweat has gathered. He smooths it down his chest and belly next, and then over his thighs, where dried cum still clings to him even under the surface of the water.  
  
In all this he's exceedingly gentle.   
  
"I don't think you'll be done by Sunday," he says flatly, maintaining his sincere effort not to betray any emotion. "It'll come in waves. So don't get excited about going home yet."

 

Stiles has to force himself not to grin at Derek's words. If he had his way, he would stay under the Alpha's care for the rest of the month. Every stroke of the washcloth over his his heated skin makes him want to purr with pleasure. He leans his head back obediently when Derek reaches for a cup so he can wash Stiles' hair. His fingertips massage Stiles' scalp meticulously, and at that, Stiles does mewl in appreciation.   
  
His cock gives a twitch of interest, but does not rise. When Derek leans back over him to wash the last of the soap from his hair, Stiles tilts his chin up to bump their lips into a kiss. His mouth opens to allow Derek's tongue inside as he twists one wet hand into Derek's hair.   
  
"I can't decide if I want to fuck again or take a nap first." 

 

"Either way," Derek shrugs; both options sound good to him.   
  
He loosens the stop of the tub and rises, still naked -- and rather comfortable that way in Stiles' presence -- to get a towel. Slipping both arms under him, he lifts him onto the bath mat and dries him there, patting him down and then wrapping him in it, taking meticulous care to keep him dry. It' the moisture, he reminds himself, that hurts their skin.  
  
Along with the friction, that is.   
  
"You know," he says, "another option is to eat. You should at least drink."  
  
There is a bathrobe in the loft; mostly Cora had used it. He unhooks it from the back of the door and drapes it over Stiles' shoulders, loosely securing the belt around his narrow waist. He can't resist kissing him a couple more times, just to remind himself that he  _can,_ because for the moment at least their bodies belong to one another.  
  
Steadying him by the waist, he helps him down the loft stairs, and deposits him in the same kitchen chair he'd settled into earlier.  
  
"Anything sound good?" he wonders, gesturing to the cabinets full of junk food. "There's also real food."

 

"Oh, my god, the food," Stiles groans, lowering his forehead to the table with a small  _thunk_. "I completely forgot about the food." He turns to rest his cheek against the cool surface of the wood as he considers Derek.   
  
"Hot pockets. Swiss rolls. Twizzlers. And a Dr. Pepper. And next time you should put the box of swiss rolls in the freezer. The twinkies, too. They're much better frozen."   
  
As he watches Derek heat his hot pockets and unwrap swiss rolls, his mind begins to wander. Derek seems to know exactly what he's doing, but he's probably done this a thousand times. No less than twenty, Stiles is sure.   
  
"How many omegas have you helped through their heats? It's probably a ton, I'm sure, but I really do appreciate you doing this."  _Even if it's just a one-time thing._ "I would have had to go back on the suppressants, if it wasn't for you." And he hates the suppressants. They make him feel like a zombie for days. 

 

A plate isn't going to cut it.   
  
Derek winds up fishing a tray out from under the sink, and rinsing it before setting it with the various courses Stiles has requested.  
  
All said and done, there are the steaming hot pockets, sticky chocolate swiss rolls, a few bundles of twizzlers, and a couple of Dr. Peppers -- he adds a second so he won't have to get up again for it. In the meantime he produces a couple of boiled eggs and some turkey breast he'd prepared in advanced, and heats it for himself.   
  
He settles Stiles' tray of junk before him on the table, and settles down across from him, thinking his question over.  
  
"Actually," he returns around a mouthful of turkey, "You're number one. Don't think I've ever even known another omega. Not well, anyway."  
  
There's Isaac, but he's pack, not mate-material.  
  
_Mate material?_ Derek shakes the thought off with a gulp of ice water. Somehow the slickness of the glass returns his mind to the fact that Stiles is still plugged; he shifts in place, well aware that there's not so much as a thin layer of jersey between his stiffening dick and wandering eyes.  
  
"You can take that thing out," he reminds him, "if it gets uncomfortable."

 

"Oh, it's fine," Stiles says airily. It's also keeping him from leaking all over the chair, but he won't say that to Derek. It doesn't feel horrible, either. It's almost like Derek is still inside him, even though he's standing across the kitchen, and Stiles likes that feeling.   
  
He picks at the hot pocket with two fingers. It's really too hot to eat, but he can't help himself from poking at it. The sauce and pepperoni rolled up inside a flaky crust makes his stomach rumble. He's not sure this will be enough, but it's a good place to start. As he waits for the hot pocket to cool, he drinks down about half a can of Dr. Pepper and shoves one swiss roll into his mouth.   
  
As he chews, he considers the enigma that is Derek Hale. He's honestly surprised to hear that he's the first omega Derek has spent a heat with. It stirs up some measure of pride, but he stomps that down as fast as it appears.  _He's not yours_ , Stiles reminds himself again. Sure, they tried to fuck that once, but it's not like Derek was holding out for him. He said himself he's never met another omega (except for Isaac, of course) so he hasn't had a lot of opportunities to spread his Alpha seed, as it were.   
  
"Are you planning to help Isaac through his heat?" Stiles asks innocently, biting down on the hot pocket. It's still too hot, and his hisses, pulling away from the pastry with his teeth bared and a gooey line of cheese connecting them. 

 

Derek watches him eat with unveiled interest, graceless as it is. The thin string of cheese (or whatever passes for cheese in those things) dangles from his lips, and thin is slowly reeled in just beneath the tip of his cupid's bow by a slowly lapping tongue. He thinks he must've repressed all those times he stared shamelessly at Stiles' tongue, because the kid really isn't shy about working at his lips with it when he's concentrating. Memories drift to the surface of his thoughts, and Derek begins to believe he must've been attracted to Stiles for far longer than he let himself believe...  
  
"Isaac?"  
  
The name snaps him out of his steamy reverie.   
  
"No," he shakes his head, turns his attention to his food, and picks at it with his fork. "No, he's pack. Like family."  
  
Which isn't to say Derek has never considered him sexually. Isaac is a good-looking boy, preternaturally rosy and fertile-looking, tall, strapping, easy and docile. He would undoubtedly be a rewarding fuck, but Derek knows better than to try no-strings-attached sex with pack. With pack, there are  _always_  strings attached.  
  
"Why?" Derek then presses, glancing up from a half-eaten turkey breast. "I wasn't your first pick for an Alpha, right? Let me guess: McCall turned you down."  
  
And the thought, though one of his own creation, ignites the palest flame of jealousy.

 

Hearing Scott's name sets something off-kilter inside of Stiles. All at once the hotpocket in his mouth turns to cement, and he drops it onto the plate. He's not hungry anymore, and the robe doesn't feel warm enough. He wants out of this room, out of Derek's house. Wants his heat to be over, wants to go home and scrub himself clean of the Alpha--wants this goddamn buttplug out of his ass and Derek's seed with it.   
  
"Why would you say something like that?" he asks, his words sounding more hurt than angry, much to his own dismay. "Scott may be to me what Isaac is to you, but there's a big fucking difference between growing up with someone--a human--than biting someone and becoming 'pack.' I have only the barest understanding of  _my own_ physiology and you expect me to understand  _werewolf politics_?   
  
"Use your head, Derek, and not the one between your legs. Don't you think if I asked Scott-- _a beta_ \--to Alpha for me he would suck it up and do it because _he's my best friend_?" Stiles is so angry he's shaking. "You weren't just my first pick--you were my  _only_ pick. If you would have said no, I just would have gone back on suppressants, which, apparently I should have done, anyway."  
  
Stiles takes a long slow deep breath.   
  
"Did you also forget about the time I gave you my virginity? Because I didn't lose it, Derek. I know exactly where to find it."  
  
His anger seems to have the wrong effect on his body, though. If it weren't for the plug, he would be leaking all over the seat, but Stiles is not about to tell Derek that. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the remainder of his breakfast as he tries to will his traitorous cock back down. 

 

By the time Stiles finishes Derek is dumbfounded. He opens his mouth to respond, rethinks, closes it, and breathes heavily through his nose. His jaw tightens, and his thoughts feel frustratingly elusive.   
  
"Stiles," he grinds out, "it was -- I was  _joking."  
  
_ For as long as he's known the boys they've been nothing more than the best of friends, but that proximity has always given way to a good amount of teasing about the nature of their relationship. Some of it is good natured -- Isaac, for instance, has a go now and then -- and some of it less so, as in the case of Jackson. Derek has never taken any of it seriously enough to imagine that it could be offensive.  
  
But he can only imagine Stiles reacting this way out of an excess of emotion. Usually the kid is cool.   
  
_Wasn't he just saying he wants to get home?  
  
_ Derek's brows knit together as he tries to reconcile the two -- maybe, he thinks, Stiles just wants to get out of here, already irritated by him. It would at least explain why he's so on-edge, and why he brought up the very early departure date earlier, in the bath.  
  
"I was trying to play with you," he adds, somewhat defeated, as he rises to carry his plate and utensils over to the sink. He splashes a little of the cool water on his face as he washes, and tells himself this is all a result of Stiles' heat, which he has no control over. Getting angry, therefore, won't do any good.   
  
When he returns to the table, he's rather embarrassed at being naked, the intimacy between them somewhat disrupted by Stiles' anger. He squeezes his shoulder as he passes, mumbling, "I'm sorry, ok?"

 

Stiles watches Derek's retreating back as the anger inside his chest escalates. He jumps up from the table, leaving his plate forgotten.   
  
_I was just trying to play with you._  
  
"Trying to play with me?" he shouts up the stairs. "I'm not a fucking doll, Derek! And you don't get out of this conversation like running away  _like you always do!_ "  
  
Every step he takes incites him further. Not only has Derek insulted him, now he's abandoned him, to boot. If he really wants, he can probably have Derek arrested, or at the very least, have the heat contract annulled. Both possibilities are swimming through his mind right now, along with how he's going to string Derek up by his balls.   
  
Stiles finds Derek in the bathroom--the door is open--and the sight that greets him is like a punch in the stomach. 

 

It's a sad fact of his personality that he's never been able to deal well with others' emotions, especially anger. When those around him get angry, Derek can either escalate -- that is, lash out, match their wrath and then some -- retreat, or fold. He'd made a habit of succumbing submissively to Kate's unpredictable spells of rage, and now has resolved never to take that route again.  
  
So he leaves.  
  
The bathroom needs to be straightened anyhow, he tells himself; he hates messes, they make him feel out of control. But when he scoops up the towel he'd tossed to the floor, though his body is still tight with anxiety (whatever is going on with Stiles right now  _will_  have to be solved; he can't hide forever, he knows --) the scent comforts him.   
  
Stiles smells good on any given day. Derek can admit that to himself now. It's always been some mixture of clean linen and boyish aftershave and the vaguely sterile scent of public school, sometimes coupled with a twinge of fresh grass. When he's in heat, the scent is downright intoxicating -- heady, earthy, complex spice, something sweet and inviting, warm...  
  
And there really is nothing else to say, when the door opens. Derek gives a brief start, and slowly lowers the towel from his face, staring at Stiles blankly.  
  
"You smell good," he explains, as though the other had been confused about the scene. "Usually. But now especially."

 

Whatever Stiles was going to stay sticks to the roof his his mouth at the sight of Derek's full frontal nudity. It's no different than the view Stiles was treated to downstairs, but hearing Derek talk about him like that makes his omega side swoon.   
  
_No,_ he reminds himself forcefully,  _You are not going to just fall at his feet like that. That's what he wants. That's probably what he_ expects  _from omegas, anyway. Do not give him the satisfaction, Stiles._  
  
"I smell good? I fucking  _smell good_?" Stiles grabs ahold of his anger and hangs on for all he's worth. "Look, I think this whole thing was just a big mistake."   
  
He pushes past Derek and shrugs out of the bathrobe. Lifting one foot up onto the counter, he throws a look over his shoulder at Derek as he tries to pull the plug out of his ass, but he can't seem to get a good grip.   
  
"Get this thing out of me, will you?" 

 

With his foot balanced on the countertop and head turned over his shoulder, Stiles' spine bows into a suggestive dip, and the slope of it  _does_ something to Derek. His heat isn't over, and neither is Stiles' -- he can tell by the smell and look of him, unusually flexible and sensitive to temperature and touch. Even though what he's saying is heartbreaking -- Derek's mind can't really match up the word  _mistake_  with the shuddering, life-affirming orgasm he had only a couple of hours ago -- he's as enticing as ever.  
  
So Derek tries to maintain his composure.   
  
He dumps the towel into the hamper and returns to Stiles, laying a hand over his waist, where a crease is formed by his leg folded so close to his body. Derek surmises he's having trouble getting a grip on the plug because his body has pulled it in so deep in want.   
  
"Relax," he recommends softly, letting his other hand trail down the teen's back. When he reaches his ass he runs his fingertips over the base of the plug carefully, mapping the places it meets Stiles' skin.   
  
He's only able to get a hold on it by pressing one finger up underneath and pulling down gently until the base loosens a little from the other, though Stiles' body fights the removal in a way that makes his cock pulse and ache for touch.   
  
"Y'know," he goes on, idly, sliding the plug free inch by inch, "for what it's worth, I don't think this is a mistake. Any of it."

 

The plug slides free and Stiles watches as it is set in the sink to be washed. His hole remains open--he can feel it--yet his body clenches reflexively on nothing but air. With the absence of the plug, he wants--needs--something to fill him up. Almost as soon as the plug is gone he can feel the gross mixture of slick and cum begin to make its way out of his body, but just as suddenly he's hit with another wave of heat. His foot slips on the counter and if it weren't for Derek's solid presence behind him, Stiles would have crashed to the floor.   
  
Derek's scent is above him, all around him, and it makes Stiles dizzy with want. He twists in the Alpha's arms, nuzzling his neck and breathing in as deeply as he can.   
  
"I'm sorry," he pants, "I know you don't want to do this, but I really just need you to fuck me right now."   
  
Dimly, some part of him regretted admitting that to Derek, but his heat was beginning to override rational thought again. All he could think about was getting Derek's long, thick cock inside of him so he could write around on his knot. 

 

 

Maybe, he thinks, mood swings are part of this; maybe they're not. Maybe Stiles' disdain for him is only temporarily overridden and not transformed. Maybe after he comes he'll be surly and regretful again, and this all seems likely, but Derek puts it willfully aside.

It won't do to be despondent now. He leans into Stiles' kiss with fervor and hoists him up under the thighs, fingers pushing at the vulnerable backs of his knees, where he's weak and shaky.

"I've got you," he says to him, wondering if he's said it before, or only thought it about him.

He has thought it about Stiles, so many times. Stiles always seemed more delicate than the rest of them; skinny, defenseless Stiles -- or he seemed more delicate, anyway, when Derek couldn't admit the truth was that he just cared more about him than all the others. Isaac and Erica and Boyd, all of them like his own children, and he would've laid down any of them for Stiles.

Not that he had to, but he would've. And he would again, now, even having experienced the loss of all three in different ways, knowing that pain and fully understanding it -- would agree again to it, for this. He presses his nose into the acute corner of Stiles' jaw and breathes in a burst of foggy heat-scent, suffuse with lust and heavy as incense smoke.

Stiles' legs come up trembling to frame his waist. Derek says: "hold on tight." He backs him up against the bathroom door, pushing it closed, and feels a shiver run through him at the cool touch of the wood.

Already he can feel the heat of his hole, even before he lifts his dick between them, nestling it against the twitching, dripping rim. When the tip is pressed tightly enough to stay he loosens his grip on Stiles, lets gravity bring him down until the flare of the head has slid past resistance with a distinct sensation of yielding, and Derek moans, low and guttural, can smell his own cum and Stiles' body reverberating with pleasure.

 

Stiles can't think past the pressing need to just  _get Derek's cock inside him_. He feels like his entire life, his entire existence, has just been building up to this one point, waiting for Derek to just press inside, and then--  
  
_relief._  
  
He comes again almost as soon as the head of Derek's dick slips past the rim of his hole. His head slams back against the wood of the door and he lets out a howl like a wounded animal. It feels so good, and doesn't seem to be stopping any time soon. The pleasure continues to mount and crest like he's on a roller coaster of orgasms. Unlike beta, or even Alpha, women, omegas are able to have orgasm after orgasm so long as the Alpha stimulus (in this case, Derek's dick) is still in place.   
  
At no point does it become overwhelming, not even when Stiles' short fingernails dig grooves down the hard muscle of Derek's biceps so he can hold on tighter. His hole just keeps clenching, and he keeps cumming, and it's all he can do to just  _hang on._  
  
When the haze does finally clear, it feels like they haven't moved. Derek still has him wedged up against the door, his dick still buried to the hilt (sans knot). Stiles is panting harshly through his nose. His chest and cheeks are splotched with red like he's experiencing an allergic reaction. (Quite the contrary, actually.)   
  
"Howww is my dick still cumming," he stutters against the skin stretched over Derek's collarbone. 

 

He doesn't even really remember getting this erection. During his heat it just happens; Stiles' smell alone is enough to set him off.   
  
And he knows he shouldn't knot him, not here, like this. If he did he'd have to carry him back to bed knotted, which would tug and pull at him weightily and uncomfortably. A long time ago he read a caption under a picture in a magazine, must've been  _O-Ring._ The picture was of an omega, and he knew it was an omega because of the softness of her features and the placid, almost distant expression that made her look glazed even though there was some massive cock jammed in her. The caption said:  _Pain? No Gain: Don't forget, just because she's in heat doesn't mean she can't feel pain.  
  
_ Was one of Peter's mags, in the nineties. Since then they've come out with research showing that during heat, omegas' pain receptors are vastly reduced in function. But there's still some receptivity, and Derek knows better than anyone how powerful the memory of pain can be.  
  
_I don't know whether to kill it or lick it.  
  
_ Kate's voice echoes in the back of his mind with birdsong; it's dawn, he can hear the chorus of morning rising outside the windows, through the walls, senses heightened by his heat. He carries Stiles back to bed in a sort of daze, so close to orgasm he can feel the weird twinge at the back of his throat, choking of his voice. Still he lowers him down gently, a hand on either side of his head, and watches his face as he bends over him.  
  
Stiles looks like she did, the woman in the magazine, who he thinks of now when he thinks of that caption. His expression is similar. On some level it's arousing, so fucking hot, Derek thinks he must've fucked the sense right out of him, fucked him into some kind of oblivion, subspace, where all he needs is more and more and more and moremoremore.  
  
And then again, he also wants  _Stiles_.  
  
"Gonna come," he utters, hips pumping, sweat is dripping off the tip of his nose, lands near Stiles' lip. "You -- relax," he adds, breathless, and when he knots him stars explode in his vision but he doesn't close his eyes, instead keeps looking, watching, as the thick bulk of flesh embeds jerkily in him, and locks in place.

 

Stiles very nearly cries actual tears when Derek's knot finally slips inside his body and stays there. It seems to settle something in his chest, and he runs his hands gently up and down Derek's sweaty back, whispering nonsense to him.   
  
"Yes, Derek, yes yes yes, fuck me fuck me." He's not cumming anymore--not that it matters--but his head is finally beginning to clear ever so slightly. He folds his knees up so that his feet are resting on the bed and he's cradling Derek's body more than laying under it. His head falls to the side. He's exposing his throat without having the wherewithall to realise what he's doing.   
  
Licking his lips, he takes a slow deep breath. He feels like he's just run a marathon and then some.   
  
"Are you . . . " Stiles stops. His mouth has gotten him into a fair amount of trouble over the years, and doesn't seem to be ready to stop. Now seems like as good of a time as any, especially considering Derek can't get away from him this time. "Tell me something, Derek. Honestly. Did you agree to go through this heat with me because you just wanted to have sex with me, or do you actually . . . " The words stop short of  _see me as your omega_. Even what they were doing before had a casual air of bedwarming, but here, now, in Derek's arms, Stiles doesn't want to just be the one Derek calls when his dick gets hard.   
  
"Because I don't . . . " he shifts as much as he can to get more comfortable. For as good as knotting feels, the adrenaline begins to leave his body as soon as it happens, and he's left with the tingle of sensation and discomfort. "I just don't want this to mean nothing to you. I know you don't feel like I'm family the way you do Isaac, but--" he turns his face into the pillow so he doesn't have to see Derek's eyes "--I do care about you, okay? And it would just be nice to know that you didn't just tolerate my presence. Even when I'm not leaking from the anus." 

 

It doesn't even occur to him that Stiles asked a question back there against the door, rocking in its frame, until the waves of his orgasm rise and break over him.  _How is my dick still cumming?_ Pretty simple, he thinks: omegas come over and over again because when they do their internal walls pulse and draw up Alpha semen deeper inside them, where some red chamber awaits with an egg secreted away, not unlike a pearl, ready to be fertilized. For Stiles, a male omega, the little sac is somewhere mid-abdomen.  
  
_We're not using condoms.  
  
_ Derek swallows hard.  
  
And Stiles is talking to him. He can hear him only vaguely through the din of his realization, and can see the arch of his exposed throat, bob of his Adam's apple as he mutters something about Isaac, and then, as if to cleanse himself of  _that_  sin, says he cares.  
  
Somehow Derek finds his sweaty hand, joints still knobbly and awkward with teen-age, and pries the fingers up from damp bedsheets. He laces theirs together, palm to palm, and scents him again to make sure.  
  
There's not one note of unclarity in his smell, he notes. Stiles is pure, everything about him is pure, his very being is like a silver bell in white light: clean, whole,  _perfect._  That he will inevitably be defiled by Derek and, well, all his fucking baggage -- momentarily recedes.   
  
"I want you," he confesses, low, raspy, right into the shell of his ear. "Want you as my omega. Fuck Lahey. Forget him. I'm here with you."

 

The sound of those words on Derek's tongue is like balm for Stiles soul. He practically melts into the mattress with the knowledge that it isn't just an Alpha, but  _his_ Alpha above him, all around him, filling him, knotting him,  _loving him._  
  
"I love you, too," Stiles whispers, smearing his grin into Derek's neck. He's always known that the werewolf isn't very verbal, nor does he come out with his feelings very easily, so to have him admit that he wants Stiles for his omega is as much of an admission of love as he's going to get.   
  
Wrapping his long arms snugly around Derek's firm back, he snuffles a soft sigh and closes his eyes. The rest of the world can just  _wait_ until his heat is over. 

 

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love buttplugs. They're pretty much my favourite sex toy. Hence. 
> 
> And yes, you must suffer my mindless meta when I post. :D
> 
> If you liked this, please leave us some feedback. It's totally the ambrosia for our muses.


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